J. Robb: Vengeance in Death

"You're forgetting an umbrella," he murmured, and sighed when she walked into the thin drizzle unprotected.

He hadn't told her everything. How could he? How could he be certain it was relevant, in any case? He needed more before he risked tangling the woman he loved in the ugliness of his own past, his own sins.

He left his office, heading for the communications room that was both expansive and illegal. Laying his palm on the security screen, he identified himself then entered. Here, the equipment was unregistered and any activity would be undetected by the all-seeing eye of CompuGuard. He needed specifics in order to plan his next step, and sitting in the deep U of a sleek black control center, he began.

Invading the system of NYPSD was child's play for him. He sent a silent apology to his wife as he accessed her files, dipped into the medical examiner's office.

"Crime scene video on screen one," Roarke ordered, easing back. "Autopsy report, screen two, primary investigating officer's report, screen three."

The horror of what had been done to Brennen swam on screen, made Roarke's eyes go cold and flat. There was little left of the young man he'd known a lifetime before in Dublin. He read Eve's clipped and formal report without emotion, studied the complex terms of the preliminary report from the ME.

"Copy to file Brennen, code Roarke, password my voiceprint only. Off screen."

Turning, he reached for his in-house tele-link. "Summerset, come up please."

"On my way."

Roarke rose, moved to the window. The past could come back to haunt, he knew. Most often it remained in some ghostly corner waiting to strike. Had it slipped out to strike Tommy Brennen? he wondered. Or was it just bad luck, bad timing?

The door slid open and Summerset, bony in black, stepped through. "Is there a problem?"

"Thomas Brennen."

Summerset's thin lips frowned, then his eyes cleared into what was nearly a smile. "Ah yes, an eager young hacker with a love of rebel songs and Guinness."

"He's been murdered."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Here in New York," Roarke continued. "Eve is primary." Roarke watched Summerset's mouth set and flatten. "He was tortured, kept alive for the pain. Disemboweled."

It took a moment, but Summerset's already pale face whitened a shade more. "Coincidence."

"Maybe, hopefully." Roarke indulged himself by taking a slim cigarette from a japanned case, lighting it. "Whoever did it called my wife personally, wanted her involved."

"She's a cop," Summerset said with a lifetime of disdain in his voice.

"She's my wife," Roarke returned, the edge in his voice scalpel sharp. "If it turns out it isn't coincidence, I'll tell her everything."

"You can't risk that. There's no statute of limitations on murder – even justifiable murder."

"That'll be up to her, won't it?" Roarke took a long drag, sat on the edge of the console. "I won't have her working blind, Summerset. I won't put her in that position. Not for myself, not for you." The grief slipped back into his eyes as he looked down at the flame at the tip of the cigarette. "Not for memories. You need to be prepared."

"It's not me who'll pay if the law means more to her than you. You did what needed to be done, what had to be done, what should have been done."

"And so will Eve," Roarke said mildly. "Before we project, we need to reconstruct. How much do you remember about that time, and who was involved?"

"I've forgotten nothing."

Roarke studied Summerset's stiff jaw, hard eyes and nodded. "That's what I was counting on. Let's get to work then."

The lights on the console twinkled like stars. He loved to look at them. It didn't matter that the room was small, and windowless, not when he had the hum of the machine, the light of those stars to guide him.

He was ready to move on to the next one, ready to begin the next round. The young boy who still lived inside him reveled in the competition. The man who had formed out of that boy prepared for the holy work.

His tools were carefully set out. He opened the vial of water blessed by a bishop and sprinkled it reverently over the laser, the knives, the hammer, the nails. The instruments of divine vengeance, the tools of retribution. Behind them was a statue of the Virgin, carved in white marble to symbolize her purity. Her arms were spread in benediction, her face beautiful and serene in acceptance.

He bent, kissed the white marble feet.

For a moment he thought he saw the gleam of blood on his hand, and that hand shook.

But no, his hand was clean and white. He had washed the blood of his enemy away. The mark of Cain stained the others, but not him. He was the lamb of God after all.

He would meet with another enemy soon, very soon, and he had to be strong to bait, to trap, to wear the mask of friendship.

He had fasted, made the sacrifice, cleansed his heart and mind of all worldly evils. Now he dipped his fingers into a small bowl of holy water, touched his fingers to his brow, his heart, left shoulder, then right. He knelt, closing a hand over the cloth scapular he wore. It had been blessed by the Pope himself, and its promise of protection from evil comforted him.

He tucked it tidily under the silk of his shirt where it could rest against warm flesh.

Secure, confident, he lifted his gaze to the crucifix that hung above the sturdy table that held the weapons of his mission. The image of the suffering Christ gleamed silver against a cross of gold. A rich man's visual aide. The irony of owning an image carved from precious metals of a man who had preached humility never touched him.

He lighted the candles, folded his hands, and bending his head prayed with the passion of the faithful, and the mad.

He prayed for grace, and prepared for murder.

The Homicide bullpen at Cop Central smelled like day-old coffee and fresh urine. Eve wound her way through the jammed-in desks, barely registering the buzz of chatter from detectives working their 'links. A maintenance droid was busily mopping up the ancient linoleum.

Peabody's cube was a dimly lighted two-foot square in the far corner. Despite its size and location, it was as ruthlessly organized and tidy as Peabody herself.

"Somebody forget where the toilets are?" Eve asked casually, and Peabody turned from her dented, police issue metal desk.

"Bailey had a sidewalk sleeper in for questioning on a knifing. The sleeper didn't like being held as a witness and expressed his displeasure by emptying his bladder on Bailey's shoes. From all reports, said bladder was unusually full."

"Just another day in paradise. Is the sweeper report in on Brennen yet?"

"I just gave them a nudge. It should be coming through shortly."

"Then let's start with the security discs from the Luxury Towers and Brennen's apartment."

"There's a problem there, Lieutenant."

Eve cocked her head. "You didn't get them?"

"I got what there was to get." Peabody picked up a sealed bag containing a single disc. "The Towers's security, penthouse level, for the twelve-hour period before the discovery of Brennen's body and the SCAN-EYE in Brennen's place were disengaged, and empty."

Eve nodded and took the bag. "I should have figured he wouldn't be that stupid. Did you download the incoming and outgoing calls from Brennen's tele-link?"

"Right here." Peabody handed over another disc, neatly labeled.

"My office. We'll run them and see what we've got. I'm going to give Feeney a call," Eve continued as they headed out of the bullpen. "We're going to need the Electronic Detective Division on this."

"Captain Feeney's in Mexico, Lieutenant. Vacation?"

Eve stopped, scowled. "Shit, I forgot. He's got another week, doesn't he?"